Getting Rid of Matthew (15 page)

19

S
OMETIMES WHEN HELEN COULDN'T SLEEP,
she got up and wandered around the flat, switching on the TV, making coffee, reading. That had been harder since Matthew moved in, because after a while she'd hear him calling for her to come back to bed, complaining that just knowing she was up was keeping him awake.

On Sunday night, though, she'd had to do something. She'd woken at one thirty, her mind racing immediately, and she knew straightaway that there was no chance she was going to do anything other than lie staring at the crack in the ceiling for the rest of the night. She looked across at Matthew, deep in sleep. She rolled over and got out of bed as gently as she could, and tiptoed out to the hall, closing the door. The living room was dark and unwelcoming; tiny flakes of frost covered the outside of the windows. She could see her breath in front of her, so she turned up the heat, pulled on a sweater, and switched on the lamp in the corner. In six hours, she'd have to get up for work.

She got out her notebook, trying to concentrate, and read through the list she'd made earlier. Pitiful. Maybe she should just stick to providing the D-listers and placing some features. Stick with what you know, she thought. She allowed herself a brief second to drift off into thinking about Sonny again, then pulled herself back. For fuck's sake, what was wrong with her? OK, so a half-decent (all right, very decent) man, who was her own age and had all his hair, had paid some attention to her. OK, so he'd intimated that he might still be interested further down the line, once she had sorted out her tragic personal life. So what? It happened every day. But, of course, it didn't, not to her. That was the point. What if Sonny could be the next big love of her life but it all got fucked up because of Matthew? For God's sake, she thought, pull yourself together, you've barely met the man, let's not get carried away by a random pang of lust.

She looked at her watch on the table and tried to calculate how many hours it was till she could call Sonny and try to pretend to be having a casual work conversation. Nine thirty was too early. It'd look too keen. So was ten, for that matter, because he might think she only started work at ten and she didn't want him to think his was the first call she'd made. Ten twenty, she decided randomly. Eight hours away.

* * *

At seven a.m., Helen woke up on the sofa, pins and needles raging down her right arm. It took her a moment to remember why she was there. She made some tea and then, checking that the bedroom door was still closed, she got out her mobile and dialed Rachel.

"What the fuck?"

"Sorry, Rach, I know it's early."

She heard Rachel slump back down on her pillow. "It's only Helen," she heard her say to Neil.

"Christ, Helen, I thought I was having a heart attack. I still might. This'd better be good."

"I've met a man. And I've got a job."

"OK, now I'm interested. Put the kettle on," she heard Rachel call over her shoulder.

"It's only for a couple of weeks, but it's proper PR."

"OK, man first. What do you mean, you've met a man? You have a man."

"I know it's insane, but I think I might really like him, and he knows I've got a boyfriend, and he said he'll wait till I sort myself out, and then who knows…"

"Is he gay?"

"No! I don't think so. He's just…nice. It's good that he wants to do it properly."

"How do you know he wants to do it at all?"

"I don't. Well, I do, because he kissed me, but what if he hated it and then he was just being polite and actually he was thinking, thank God she's already got a boyfriend? Oh, God, this is ridiculous."

"I hate to be the one to say it, but what about Matthew? I thought you were trying to make a go of it."

"I don't know if I can. Oh, God, Rach, it's so fucked up.
I've
so fucked up."

"You have to make a decision. Don't mess people around, it's not fair."

Helen heard the thunder of the boiler starting up as the bath taps were turned on.

"Oh, God, Matthew's up, gotta go."

She could hear Rachel saying, "Don't do anything stupid" as she clicked the phone off.

* * *

As it turned out, Helen's mind was on anything other than Sonny at twenty past ten. All hell had broken out in the general office. It transpired that Friday night's office drinks had gotten a bit out of hand after Helen had left. Helen-from-Accounts, not used to drinking, had had one glass of champagne too many, and called husband Geoff to insist he come to the Crown and Two Chairmen and meet the girls. Geoff had ordered round after round, flashing his Burton's wallet, with its Friday night fresh-out-of-the-ATM notes, and refusing to let anyone else buy a drink. At around half past nine, they'd played a hilarious game of truth or dare and while Geoff had taken a dare each time (going up to a very straight-looking man at the next table and asking him if he wanted a quick hand job—"No, thank you," taking an empty wineglass back to the barman and demanding a fresh one because it was corked—"Fuck off"), Helen-from-Accounts always chose truth. Some of the facts she had let slip to the other girls included:

Geoff's pet name for her clitoris was her peanut.

Helen's pet name for Geoff's penis was Sergeant Sweeney ("Because he's always standing to attention," she'd shouted, and Geoff had guffawed).

If she had to have sex with a woman, she'd choose Jenny ("Because you're so pretty," she slurred in what she thought was a coquettish but jokey way. "Isn't she, Geoff?").

By ten o'clock, as they left the pub to make their way home, Helen and Geoff could barely stand.

"Night, then." Geoff hugged Annie like they were old friends. When he'd gotten to Jenny, she'd clung onto his arms, and next thing Helen-from-Accounts knew, they were kissing. Not just kissing, but snogging properly, Geoff 's hands running up and down her back and, at one point, Helen-from-Accounts was sure, over her backside. Annie was watching, mouth open, the beginnings of a smirk appearing on her face. Helen-from-Accounts had grabbed her husband's arm and physically pulled him away from the other woman, who had wiped her hand over her mouth theatrically as if in distaste. As Helen-from-Accounts pulled Geoff down the street, she could hear the two girls start laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

To make the evening perfect, as Helen-from-Accounts stormed her way around the corner into Soho Square with Geoff following behind, bemused at the change in atmosphere ("What? What have I done?"), two men whom they had seen in the pub earlier came up behind them and relieved Geoff of his wallet and Helen-from-Accounts of her burgundy leather handbag, with threats of violence. Then, to top it all, Geoff was sick, mostly down himself. Helen-from-Accounts had just about managed to find enough change in both their pockets to get the bus, and they'd sat on the top deck, not speaking, with a fug of beery old vomit from Geoff's sweater rising up around them.

* * *

Helen managed to piece this story together from the many different versions that were being bandied about the office because, of course, almost no one was speaking to her. The most juicy bits she gathered from the screaming row which Helen-from-Accounts had with Jenny, about four feet away from her, at about ten fifteen. Helen had her head down, as usual, pretending to work, while counting down the minutes till she could retrieve the little business card, which she had surreptitiously transferred this morning from the pocket of her jeans to her bag, and make the call. Through the glass wall of the accounts department, she could see a conspicuously empty chair where Helen-from-Accounts should be. She'd never been known to be late before.

At a quarter past ten, a little fat whirlwind blew through the general office and stopped beside Jenny's desk. Annie followed in behind so as not to miss the excitement.

"How could you?" Helen-from-Accounts was shouting, tears already running down the two deep canyons in her cheeks that had grown over the weekend.

"Morning, Helen." Jenny smiled at her insincerely. "It was a great night Friday, wasn't it? Did Geoff enjoy himself? He certainly seemed to."

"You bitch. You bloody bitch."

And with that, Helen-from-Accounts launched herself, little dumpy arms and legs flailing, at the other woman. Jenny held her at arm's length, laughing, as Annie chipped in, "What, are you jealous, Helen? Do you wish she'd kissed you, instead?" Jenny, Annie, and a gathering of others who'd come in to see what all the fuss was about were laughing themselves silly as Helen-from-Accounts, a blur of arms, legs, snot, and tears, clearly a woman who had never had a fight before, continued with her pitiful attempt to make an impact.

Helen knew she should do something to intervene, but she was transfixed by the awful Jerry Springer–ness of it all. Any minute now, Geoff would come in and announce he was gay and that he was taking it up the arse from the vicar.

"You know, I'm sure I could feel Sergeant Sweeney standing to attention when Geoff was groping me," Jenny was saying, still fending off blows with one hand. Helen-from-Accounts suddenly crumpled. She stood motionless for a brief moment, taking in her enemies and the watching bystanders, some of whom had now at least had the good grace to start to look uncomfortable, then she turned and ran from the room toward the toilets. The crowd began to disperse, and Helen heard several of them muttering that things had gone a bit far.

Helen sat shrouded in guilt. Why had she just let that happen? Half the people who worked at Global were afraid of the coven—they didn't want to risk becoming the target of one of their hate campaigns—but what the fuck did she care? She was leaving soon, she should have gotten in there and broken it up. She had always liked to think that she would be the person on the tube who would apprehend the mugger, but now she felt like she'd hidden behind her newspaper while a crime had been committed in front of her. Annie and Jenny were still incapacitated with laughter. Helen got up and left the room.

Here we go again, she thought, as she entered the ladies' and stood by the cubicle door with the familiar sob/sniff concerto going on behind it. She took a deep breath.

"Helen, it's Helen. Open the door."

Sniff
. "Go away."

"No, not till I know you're OK." How sad is it, she thought, that I'm the only person who's bothered to come in and check up on her and I can't even stand the woman.

"Do you want me to get anyone? Do you want me to call Geoff?"

Sob, sniff, sniff
. "Geoff's staying with his mother."

"Oh, Helen. You haven't thrown him out. Not for that. He was slaughtered, they set him up, you've got to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"What do you know about it? You did the same yourself, taking some poor bloody woman's husband away from her."

Helen thought about giving up, but there was something about the other Helen's pathetic attempt at swearing that made her want to cry. She wanted to say "At least say 'fucking,' no one says 'bloody' anymore except on
EastEnders.
" She sat down on the floor by the sink, in for the long haul.

* * *

By the time they got back to the office, Helen was exhausted. I could never be a hostage negotiator, she thought, I'd just want to tell them to get on and kill everyone and let me go home. Have the helicopter, just shut the fuck up. Helen-from-Accounts made her way back to her desk and seemed to be pulling herself together, at least enough to get on with her work. Helen had no idea whether she was intending to call Geoff or not. She was past caring, to be honest. But the atmosphere seemed to have calmed down, and Annie and Jenny were, Helen thought hopefully, looking a little bit subdued, as though someone had told them they had gone too far.

At twelve o'clock, Laura did something she had never done before—she asked Helen to write a release to go out to reviewers with copies of a new autobiography one of the D-Listers had written. Shaun Dickinson, a twenty-eight-year-old…what was it he did, again? He was in the papers a lot, but not for actually doing anything, mostly for being places (and then only when someone from Global had called ahead to make sure the press would be there). He went out with a glamour girl and together they had earned a lot of money by sharing all the intimate events in their private lives with a weekly magazine (W
HY
W
E
'
LL
N
EVER
G
ET
M
ARRIED!
W
E
'
RE
G
ETTING
M
ARRIED!
O
UR
B
ABY
H
ELL!
His gambling addiction, her sex addiction, his drug-dealing past, her polycystic ovaries, and most recently, O
UR
B
EAUTIFUL
N
EW
L
IFE!
, featuring their recently acquired home, accessorized by the magazine's design department, her new double-D breasts, and their unhappy-looking adopted Chinese baby).

It was a straightforward, part-biog, part-hype document of the kind Matthew had regularly had her write for him, but it made Helen feel slightly panicky. She couldn't think where to start, and wrote the first sentence over and over again in ever more flowery language. What if she couldn't do this anymore? What if she wrote it and it was rubbish and Laura had to rewrite it herself? She tried to pull herself together—this was basic stuff, an intern could knock up something passable in five minutes. If she couldn't do this, then how the fuck was she going to promote the restaurant? Oh, God, the restaurant. It was twenty-five past twelve, she hadn't yet called Sonny, and she'd promised him she'd be in touch before lunch to finalize the date for the launch and go over her ideas (what ideas?) for the guest list.

She spent five minutes making a list of eleven celebrities she thought were dead certs to want to go to the opening of Verano (desperate, new single out, TV show to promote, split up from husband and wants to be seen out having a good time, record deal just canceled, trying to get a book deal, lost sports career through drugs). Then she put her coat on and picked up her mobile—no way was she going to call from the office, she'd have to go and sit in the park. She scrabbled around in her bag for her wallet and Sonny's card. Stuffing her money in her coat pocket, she turned the card over in her fingers, looking at it for the first time. She didn't even know his full name, she thought, screwing up her face as she read the writing on it. She turned it over again, looking at the blank side, confused, then rummaged in her bag again, looking to see if there was another, alternative, card in there. Nothing. She looked at the words on the card in her hand again and experienced that feeling as if she were going backward on a swing—nausea, disorientation, light-headedness. She closed her eyes and then looked again, as if that might make a difference. It was no good, the name on the card still read the same: